i should have never left home.
i should have never left the roof, the suffocation
and just stayed to die under blankets,
lest i die out in fresh air and spring.
i wish i could look you in the eye
and laugh with you, hold your hand,
let it sweat.
but i would have much rather died at home.
from here there are blinders on my eyes,
my windows and i measure my worth in
how many times you come over to just say *"hey",
(you lose points if you bring someone with you.)
another shadow cast in this already dark room,
i'd much rather die here, selfishly, with you pleading
for me to talk to you. then again, you never have.
i'll rather rot in this room, deluded and empty,
alive for now, but i'm waiting. i'll hold my own hand,
sweat it out, pretend it's yours.
i pretend to know what you'd kiss like, with your hands
against my cheek. i'll never know. (maybe i should leave--)
i should have never left home.
i'll relax here and wait for nothing to happen,
and for you to never kiss me at all.

when he sees her first
he tastes the acid in his throat.
it burns hot when she tells him her name.
he tries it once, twice,
five more times,
memorised on his tongue.

she sees him once as a leader and a guardian.
she sees him again as a humble man.
and finally she sees him as a man of anger,
of rage,
and great beauty
pouring blood red between his teeth.

throwback to when they first met,
now with their fingers entwined.
neither are angels although they are guardians,
captivated by each other's beauty.
individual angers, individual loves gleam
molten gold in their eyes.

i hate the gritting of my
teeth and the swelling of my
tongue and the beating of my
heart.

they talk of a place where god exists,
a place where angels die but god exists,
a place where devils thrive but god exists,
a place for men to lie and lay but god exists.

they talk of a place where man dies,
a place where animals cry but man dies,
a place where the sky sings but man dies,
a place for a flower to open but man dies.

they talk of a place where man and god are one.
they talk of a place where man is one.
god is something else, they said.
there are places for man. and places for him. they said.

they talk of a place where angels scream,
and where devils laugh, the angels scream,
and the dirt fills your ears but you hear god exist,
and you feel man die, but god exists.

i feel it. nausea.
i feel it when i think of you;
i feel it when i think of them,
and what once was and could have been,
and how i let it slip through
my fingers,

cascading gently, gracefully and clumsily
past my cellulite flesh,
forming a deep pool,
for you all to splash about,
while i stay gripped,
by nausea.

it is my own fault -- this nausea
-- for i let it fester and fuel me with
anger and hate, bubbling and boiling
in my chest, but i watched.
i let it happen.
i let the nausea in.

nausea is my name.
it is the feeling of a cry i have been
choking on for what feels like 20 years,
20 years i have not lived but
have instead been gripped
by nausea.

something to fill this empty room,
besides the scatters of something started;
a work in progress, never finished.
something besides the
dull smells of fake fragrances and a thousand candles,
spent and past in brazen attempts at aromatherapy.
something to accompany the
ceiling stared at, night after night,
besides the spider and moth that live near the light.
another human, perhaps,
if there were room, at least. another set of thoughts,
besides ones own, weighing heavy in the walls.
a monster under this bed,
give us something real to fear, make me leave,
make me feel, make me scream.
something to fill this empty room,
besides everything still in it. not empty at all,
just worn and torn, bored, full,
empty.

he is king of the castle
and the devil himself,
all in one.
they worship him anyway.

he shoots up sometimes,
cries when he comes down from the high.
his eyes are void, glassy,
his voice, whimpering, raspy.

they called him god and saviour,
friend, brother and lover.
he is never really alone,
but finds one place where he will be.

you,
with salt water in your lungs and fire in your palms,
stay calm.
you,
mother of great rage and captor of men’s pride,
stay humble.
you,
carrying your father’s weariness and the seven realms on your shoulders,
stay strong.
you*,
sacrifice yourself every night and cry to No God in the sky, only a star behind the clouds,
stay content.

there is something tasteless
on the tip of my tongue
and as I bid it to stay still
you spill.
a broken dam.
I tried with all nerves
only for you to sit on them
tuning them to your song
to suit your voice.
puppet strings.
and hate is a strong word
feeling
which is the only thing I know
it seems.

there is no poetry in this,
in the cold cascade of misery upon misery
upon anger
in teen hearts and
brittle limbs,
eyes red and tired and
sleep forgotten in alleyways and
empty glasses.

sting of the slap and salt from the tears,
our knees grazed and our hearty laughs,
ringing, resonant. the smoke from our
cigarettes, overwhelming, customary,
the spill of a drink and the shake of a head,
we retire; another night, parting,
left to our fears.

was i not that for you --
the warm shoulder, the cold shoulder,
a hand to hold and grip,
someone to leave behind and walk ahead of --
a set of lips?

if that's what you wanted.

i couldn't muster a fraction of love for myself.
in tongue, i choke and it falls back into my chest.
i could explode if you poked me or
i will stay put, filling even more. ever-expanding.
in weight and in presence, and yet i am nothing.
in existence, i have no ripple and
i am still filling.

i cannot muster a fraction of love for myself.
and i cannot burden you with a word or two.
so i am still filling, no intent on being large.
but i am.
and i await the day i explode and dissolve into thin air.
like i deserve.

i will not muster a fraction of love for myself.
not a fraction i would deserve.

you claw from under the sheets and scream and
you bite me if i grab back.
wrap your arms around my neck and hold tight,
and swing, and snap.
what is your obsession with the blinding white of bone?
i know you feel, you're not so sure.

is your feel blinding, white, knuckles-wound-tight heat?
is it ice against your teeth, freezing lips and death blue?
lift off, we are go into the nowhere of your eyes.

i can't protect you but i'll try; your ****** hands match
blood red sclera once white and wide and electric.
stop crying. who's crying? i'm crying. swing twice.
these sheets used to be white and dry and you
used to look me in my eyes.

is the sound too loud for you to bear or is it just right, loud enough
to deafen you into white void peace? away from everyone, weightless
in white void peace, you sleep, dripping red and unreal.

and swing thrice. snap. crack the silence.
what is your obsession with the endless black of void?

in a chance meeting, fire and ice interlock into a helix,
where they brace each other and fight with ***** fingernails.
behind ribs, a bass reverberates and a bite pierces the vein,
the vein which carries apathy and empathy and life.
a version of a ****** with her knees knocking close and hard,
bruised and grazed will make herself cry with broken glass.
if there is love it will lay under layers, suppressed and bleeding,
and if there is lack it will be worn, and worn out, exhausted.
is it a holy thing to feel? is it a holy thing to not?
                                               eyes lay heavy and water down cheeks,
                                               unprepared for the shove down into feeling,
                                               had you prepared yourself for this,
                                               then the overwhelm of air would not hurt
                                               and burn your lungs so fiercely.
                                               (is it a holy thing to feel?)
                                               (because you have to feel.)
                                               (is it a holy thing to not?)
                                               (because it hurts.)

on rooftops and balconies and cigarette ends and razor blades and powders and the people i hate,
i sing, closer to rest than i could have ever wished for.
sunlight upon subway grate, grate,
i will die in fake happy and gore.

// he came through the door and called himself god
when my name is goddess, phoenix fire and bullet.
dare he call out again after witnessing my wrath,
and fire consumes all for it has the will.

// we love and have been loved and there is an after this,
but for now I have fight and fire and I can be the wings
or the weapon, dare you call me down from here,
and my words will sway you to run lest you regret it.

// they asked me to play and so I played to the end,
played them out and further out into the forest,
dare they scream -- I have not forgotten where they are,
my demons are not tired if they want more

// but I have seen you before in many forms,
all of which I have conquered and seen rise from dirt.
I take no pleasure from this: I dare you to,
and I will show you a world you had wrongly forgotten.

if they were to call out your name in the forest,
a red fox would call back and they would clamour
to find you, a wailing so painful and so human.
the creature is unwilling and hungry, anyway.

bite,
pull,
snap of bone,
you make a fine meal.

we feel old searching for you but we have lost you,
we know but there is an enchantment in the forest
and a death wish tattooed on our eyelids.

am i tasty, too?

sometimes it's cold sweat and the pulse of my own drum
and the night is not night but it's just as ageless.
outside is brown and beige. smoggy. glum.
numbness outside, unreality. numb it out,
like there isn't a ******* hurricane outside my window.

dear god, is this how you wanted me?
dear god, my knees are sore from the questions i've been asking.
great plans. great disasters and the minuscule molecules passing through.
is this a waste or not? answer me.
dear god, answer me.

sometimes it's hot sweat and slipping palms, slipping fingers.
and the night is dark as **** but it's just as loud.
you don't mean **** to me; i grasp and slip from you.
i feel you everywhere but i will numb you out.
like there isn't a ******* apocalypse outside my window.

dear god, these nights are endless.
and i know this is what i wanted but it turns out, god,
that the last train out isn't to home. my windows are broken.  
home is lost in nightmares and skin and dear god,
i've run out of questions.

every grudge sitting neat,
legs crossed and waiting
patiently/impatiently
on the tip of my burned tongue.

only, it has reached a point
in time and two decades and
two years; i am waiting for it
to be cut out.

my girl asks me why i hate you so much.
there is a distance here that is a line
stretched thin, so slight that my fingers cut
to the touch.

the blood stains my teeth and it tastes
of metal and it's nauseating but it tastes
of you. i tell my girl i hate you, you
buried deep in my veins.

i wi-wi-wish i could bear this
a sickening distance and the sickening touch
of you pressed flush against me.
i wi-wi-wish i could stop writing about you.

watery throats and watery eyes,
there had been death here and
it seems we are drowning. versus this,
we seem to be out-manned.

we are a nothing in vast ocean space,
and space and stars, a void mouth open,
hungry and starving and full but
this is the course we are in.

in forces we are soldiers with brittle limbs
and our minds are sore and screaming
for a peace unheard of. sinking in mud and
blood and our veins behind us, streaming.

on loneliness we come up empty just as we are
and it is not a bother but a trait, a person.
acceptance is a step to be learned. we'll show
you something holy and be convicted of arson.

he closes like a -
he closes like a
- wait.
his world closes up like
god - God - took away the oxygen
with one big holy breath.

the choking feeling is
familiar like a
friendly hand in the night
under the covers
reaching for something.

there are no friendly hands here.
no hands at all.
look ma, no hands.

he closes like a
sun swallowed by the horizon,
again and again and again
because it knows how it's done.
(he knows how it's done.)

gullible enough -
blood passed cold trembling fingers
and a sob caught in the throat,
gone at the sound of your voice

in poetic terms, it feels like;
a violent summer day coming to a close
along the line of the horizon, where the sun
crashes through the floor and everything
is colours, and everything hurts.
it is as beautiful as it is painful,
and it swallows the soul whole.

in less poetic terms,
it sounds much less appealing.

in a better version of myself, i could have
leaned in for the kiss and told you
you were wrong.

in a better version of yourself, you should have
leaned in for the kiss and told me
this was right.

here is the first thing;
i fell in love with a woman when i didn't know what i was.
i hated her before i loved her - everything about her an evasive blur,
and i caught her briefly enough to discover
that i wanted to learn every line of her body -
the taste of her cupid's bow -
briefly enough for her to have vanished.

here is the second;
i am in the writing mood with nothing to write about
but the overwhelming weight of diaspora.
i am in the writing mood and i fear, reader,
i can't write a single word.
how to paint a picture that hasn't been painted before:
i don't know.

there is perhaps a third;
words flow out of my fingers. if they were to flow out of my mouth,
then i would bite them short and out.
god, who wants to hear that?

skin wide open and splayed in breadth and blood -
one never thought our skin could be so bright and
that blood would be so red, bone so white.

tears no longer nothing but heavy weights under the eyes -
their cheeks droop under it and bruise ugly and colourful.
the light's reflections are jealous. the rainbow dissolved.

no words to describe them except for what they are.
flesh and guts are human and animal and earth.
that's the grand scheme of every thing.

a drop in the ground and the snow parts like the sea -
is this a shift in colour or is it the sun behind the horizon?
god when you need him often shakes his head no.

i'm aching with years worth of words
stowed away
i haven't been honest in a long time
don't know if i ever will be again

years long and years gone
i have cultivated           the
perfect amount of        will
to stay empty and         un-
fulfilled.

i told her "i miss you,"
and she laughed at me.
i laughed with her, my
throat - a vice.

sore and red and - i taste salt.

i told her "i miss you,"
and she didn't hear me.
so i smiled into noise and
my palms bled.

i don't know how to make this clear.

i told her; nothing.
nothing. white silence and
miles between us.
for nothing?

i got nothing in return.

i swear there's ice in my veins
but the blood is coming out thin
and red. definitely red. a rose-red.

doesn't smell like a rose.

i've never felt colder than now;
now, with the hottest red blood
running down my skin.

it's red and hot like nothing else;
fire doesn't compare to the shivering comfort
and horror of blood on mortal flesh.

you are a silhouette cut-out.
if only i could fit into you.

out of proportion?
parts; poking and cratering
across my body to make
this mismatch of flesh.

am i god's leftovers?
or is that too divine?
i'm what everyone else
simply left behind.

i thought my heart
too big, too full, too red,
but the dark side of it,
is horror, near-dead.

disproportionate - yes.
in the physical, emotional,
metaphorical sense.

i am an uneven hill surface.
cannot complain when no one
bothers to clamour across it
to see the dark side of the moon.

two years after the fact,
i realised i had fallen in love.
and that was two years too late,
as i struggled to process what 'love' was.
i confused it with envy, anger, jealousy,
and by the time i figured out it shouldn't be,
i let it consume me, until it had become nothing
but a strangled, choked, ****** sob.
it became me; something ugly.
not like you, nothing like you - don't come any closer.
let me lock it away and let it wither,
for i can't bring myself to smash it to bits.

but instead, i think it's growing larger.
god - i just can't let it starve.

isn't everything an island? isn't everything
lapped by tides at its very edges no matter
how far apart those edges are?

you learn to cope. uprooted and alive, maybe,
you learn. land is land. water is rivers, lakes,
and seas, still. the stars are the same.

(until they aren't. until one side is hidden from you.
have you been lying to yourself? for the sake of
comfort? did it work?)

it's still easier to make anywhere home when
home is no longer anywhere you can reach.

(but foreign lands are foreign lands.)

today,
my daddy told me i'd never be enough.
my chest opened up.
to know it is one thing, to hear it -

i am careless,
and i do what i can to hear it.
to let it trap me in the wallpaper
and the floorboards.

i will never move.

dear lord,
everything is too much,
not enough.

how can one be so full of desire.
how can one be so devoid of want.

my chest opened up -
that hole grows.
it never heals. scar tissue on
words but all it is
is emptiness.

swamp green and the sky
is                   fire's crimson
leaves and vines   curving
wrap the      wall, shutters

to know that my skin, my
blood can warm the beast
trembling        in my arms
if   only you would let me